Who ever is killed by the ashen Blade doesn't go to heaven nor hell no matter how great of a character you are .
The void stretched infinitely in every direction, an endless sea of nothingness. No stars, no light, just an oppressive darkness that seemed to crush in from all sides. The air was still, the silence deafening. Ezekiel, caught in this realm of despair, stood alone. His body was a broken vessel, shattered by the Ashen Blade's unyielding force. His mind a fragmented echo of the man he once was.
He felt nothing here. No warmth, no cold, no sound—just the crushing weight of oblivion. His breath, shallow and broken, struggled to find purchase in the emptiness. The void had swallowed him whole, his soul lost in the dark abyss.
And yet, in that darkness, something stirred.
At first, it was subtle—a shift in the atmosphere, a change in the very air around him. Ezekiel's heart raced, though he could not remember the last time he felt it beat. A presence, a terrible presence, emerged from the void. The ground beneath him trembled as if the earth itself recoiled from what was coming.
Then, from the deepest reaches of the nothingness, he saw it—his figure slowly coming into focus, each step deliberate, each movement filled with an unsettling grace. The entity was tall, impossibly so, with a commanding presence that seemed to warp the very fabric of the void. A figure cloaked in shadow, but beneath it, Ezekiel saw the outline of dark, molten armor, adorned with ancient runes that pulsed with a hellish red glow.
This was no ordinary being. This was a devil.
His height was nearly nine feet, towering over Ezekiel, whose frail form now seemed insignificant in the face of such power. The devil's body was muscular, lean yet strong, with an elegant but terrifying poise. He moved with a deadly grace, like a predator hunting its prey, though there was no hurry in his pace. His presence was unnerving, a mixture of godlike power and unrelenting malice.
Ezekiel's breath caught in his throat as the devil's eyes locked onto his. They were the color of molten lava—crimson with black sclerae, flickering like a firestorm. His pupils were serpentine, slitted, as if to mark him as prey. The devil's face was sharp, angular, with a jagged grin that revealed rows of razor-sharp teeth—too many, too perfect. His smile was not one of warmth but of cruel amusement, as if he were savoring the fear in Ezekiel's heart.
The devil's hair swirled around his head like tendrils of black smoke, shifting and curling in unnatural patterns. It flickered with tiny bursts of flame, as though it were alive. The blackened horns on his head curved backward, jagged and twisted like something torn from the deepest pits of hell, their surface cracked with fiery veins that seemed to pulse with dark power.
As he drew closer, the very air seemed to burn with his presence. A faint heat emanated from him, but it was not the warmth of life—it was the searing heat of a flame that could not be quenched.
His cloak, made of shadow and flame, billowed around him like a living thing. The fabric seemed to ripple as if it were composed of living darkness itself, and every step he took left a trail of smoke and embers in the air, burning away the nothingness. The edges of his cloak flickered with faint blue flames, casting an eerie, otherworldly light across the void.
He stopped before Ezekiel, his towering presence dwarfing the fallen warrior. The devil's voice, deep and rumbling, echoed through the emptiness, a voice that seemed to shake the very core of the void itself.
"You are far from home, mortal," Diablos said, his voice laced with both power and mockery. "Lost. Broken. A shadow of the man you once were."
Ezekiel could barely lift his head, his body trembling as he tried to focus on the devil before him. His mind was clouded, the pain of his broken body making it difficult to think clearly.
Diablos took a step forward, his eyes gleaming with dark amusement. "You are nothing here. You were cast aside by the Ashen Blade, forgotten by your people. But perhaps... I can offer you something more. A chance. A bargain."
Ezekiel's heart hammered in his chest, though he barely understood the words. A bargain? What could this creature possibly offer him in this void? What was there to even bargain for?
"I offer you life," Diablos continued, his voice a velvet snare. "Not as a man, not as a warrior, but as a weapon. A tool of destruction, forged in the fires of hell. You will rise from the ashes, return to the world, but..." He paused, his grin widening. "But there is a cost."
Ezekiel's breath caught in his throat. A tool of destruction? To rise again? His mind reeled with the possibility, but there was something dark and sinister in the devil's words, something he could not ignore.
"What... what do you want?" Ezekiel rasped, his voice barely a whisper. His throat felt raw, but he had to know. He needed something—anything—that would pull him from this void.
Diablos leaned down, his face coming closer, his crimson eyes burning into Ezekiel's soul. "I want your soul, mortal," he said softly, the words dripping with malicious intent. "You see, those who fall by the Ashen Blade do not go to heaven. They do not go to hell. They are forgotten, lost in the void of nothingness. But I... I will claim you. I will bring you back to life, to wreak havoc upon the world once more. But in return, your soul will be mine. Forever."
Ezekiel's mind was clouded with despair, but even in the haze, he knew what Diablos was offering. A chance to live again, to fight, to destroy—but at what cost? His very soul.
The devil's eyes gleamed with wicked anticipation, as if he could see the struggle within Ezekiel. The offer was too tempting, too powerful to resist. The memories of his old life, of his people, of the battle that had brought him to this place, flickered in his mind. He was nothing now. A broken soul in the void.
A weapon. A tool. He had no other choice.
Diablos's grin widened, sensing Ezekiel's surrender. "Then it is done," he purred. "Your soul is mine, and I shall give you life once more. But remember, mortal... those who walk the path of the Ashen Blade are not meant for heaven, nor hell. You are a forgotten soul, a harbinger of destruction. The world will tremble before you... and you will answer only to me."
With a snap of his fingers, a rush of dark energy enveloped Ezekiel, pulling him from the void. He screamed, his body writhing in pain as the darkness coiled around him, his soul bound to Diablos. The last thing he saw was the devil's fiery gaze, watching him like a puppet master with his newest toy.
And then... everything went black.
When Ezekiel awoke, the void had disappeared, replaced by a world of chaos. The flames of hell licked at his skin, and the world was his to destroy.
But as he moved forward, he could feel Diablos's presence in his very bones, a dark force that would forever guide him—until the end of time.
Ezekiel was no longer a hero.
He was a weapon. A forgotten soul.
And his new master, Diablos, had claimed him as his own.
And all that's in his mind is vengeance